Chapter 29
DREW
Ishould have left my phone off. I should have called out sick tonight and convinced Olivier to propose to Elodie another day.
I should have gotten my own place when I moved to New York.
I should have gone to community college and become a cop like my dad.
I should have never listened to my mother when I was eight and she told me, “You’re so handsome, Andrew. You should be in pictures.”
I should have known better.
I am not where I want to be right now. I want to be wrestling The Heir’s tongue into submission.
I want to be coming on Egyptian cotton. I want to take a shower and wash myself in French soaps.
I do not want to be sitting on this beat-up sleeper sofa trying to talk Silas out of making the biggest mistake of his life.
“You met him when?”
Silas looks exhausted, dark circles under his already deep-set eyes. He worked all night, too, and from what he’s just told me and Chris, he hasn’t been getting much sleep in his downtime either.
“New Year’s.”
“So…you’ve known him six weeks, and you’re moving in?”
“I’m not a fucking kid, Drew. I know what I’m doing. Besides, we can’t afford this place, the three of us. Not if we expect to be able to eat, too.”
“So, he’s just letting you move in, no rent, no strings.”
“He’s got money.”
I drop my head in frustration and helplessness. “What does he do?”
“What difference does that make?”
“Why don’t you want to tell us?” Chris asks.
Silas looks cagey. Something is not right here. I knew it the second I walked in. He’s overwrought and agitated, and I don’t think the whole reason is because he’s stiffing me and Chris with the apartment. “He’s just—he asked me not to, okay?”
“Do you know what he does?” I ask.
“Of course I do,” he snaps at me.
“Then tell us, Silas. Stop fucking around,” Chris says, just as snarky and annoyed as I am.
“He’s a politician.”
Christian’s eyes narrow. “From here?”
Silas gives a quick nod. Chris is opening his phone immediately, but I don’t have time to play guess who. New York has hundreds of politicians. “Who is it?”
“Graham Lawther,” Silas quietly replies.
Chris nearly drops his phone. “The Republican?”
Silas shoots him a dark glare.
To me Chris says, “He’s the fucking Republican asshole who got elected to the US Senate last year. He’s anti-vax, anti-trans, anti-immigrant—”
“He’s not like that,” Silas says.
“He’s fucking married, Sy.” Chris cuts in.
I hiss in my next breath and sit back. “What the fuck are you doing, dude?”
Silas’s dark gaze meets mine. “I don’t expect you to understand.”
“Did he promise you something?” I ask. “Are you gonna be a kept man? His side piece? You quitting your job, too?”
“No, I’m not fucking stupid. I’m not quitting my job. I’ll save my money for a while, and if it doesn’t work out—”
Chris can’t take it anymore. “How could it possibly work out?”
“You know what your problem is, Christian?” Silas snaps.
Chris lifts his brows in a challenge like, this is gonna be good.
“You can’t understand what it’s like to want someone to actually know you. That’s why you ghost everyone you date after a month. As soon as they want more, you’re out. It’s selfish.”
Chris barely twitches, but I see it. Silas and I both see it. It’s a brutal critique and, while I’d always thought of Chris as repressed, Silas’s assessment could be accurate.
“And your problem, Drew—”
I hold up a hand to stop him. “No one asked—”
He keeps going like I never spoke, “Is you can’t see a good thing when it’s right in front of you.”
“That’s how you see it?” I ask him. “Really?”
“That and you could probably use some lithium.”
“Are you trying to burn two bridges here?” I ask, hoping I keep my temper long enough not to set one on fire myself.
Silas softens slightly, letting some of the pain I know he carries on his shoulders everywhere he goes show for a moment. “I just want to give myself a chance to be happy.”
That is probably the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. It makes my heart hurt.
Silas gathers his keys from the end table, stands and pats his back pockets to ensure he’s got his phone and wallet. “I’m gonna take off. I might not be around much. If I can help with March rent, I’ll try, but I have some stuff I need to pay for—movers and whatever,” he mumbles.
It’s the ultimate sucker punch. I’m sitting on his couch. I sleep on his bed half the time. Without him and his stuff, Chris and I won’t have shit, including rent.
“Why come back? Just have the senator send his people,” Chris bites out, not quite over the shit Silas said to him, I’m guessing.
I’m not sure I can even remember the last time Chris was mean, much less lost his cool.
He’s a reader and a poet and a little self-obsessed, maybe, but so even-tempered, it makes me think he’s got control issues.
I’ve never seen him drink a drop of alcohol or use any mind-altering substance.
He’s not “neurotypical” is what I’m saying, but neither am I.
And while I wear my emotions on my sleeve, he usually keeps his tucked away.
He and I wait for Silas to leave before we turn to look at each other.
Chris is in a pale sweater and ripped jeans.
His blond hair is sticking out at weird angles from running his hands through it during this whole, horrible conversation.
This was why he’d been blowing up my phone trying to get me to come home.
Well, that, and he heard what happened with Jericho through mutual friends.
“Well. Guess that’s that,” he says.
It’s a bleak statement, and there’s no arguing with it. “You don’t think we can talk him out of it?”
Chris gets off the stool he’s been perched on and plops down next to me on the couch. “I think we have to be practical. We knew it was coming. We’d have limped along for March, maybe April, but we’re gonna have to figure it out on our own from here.”
I frown at him. “You moving out, too?”
“I have an option,” he says. “When Eric bailed, I asked my boss for a raise. He was sympathetic, but it was a no-go on the raise. However, he offered me one of the old basement apartments until I find something else.”
“Do you mean the building super or Gibson?”
“Gibson.”
I don’t think of Gibson as my “boss,” but he technically owns the building I work for, too.
Gibson Hayes and Christian’s father are old high school friends, even if they wound up following two very different paths in life.
Christian’s dad is an officer in the military, so he’s not exactly rolling in dough.
But I guess he’s passionate about his country or whatever.
“You just thought you’d hang onto that information?” I ask him.
“I checked out the place. It’s shitty, but it’s big. And it’s in the city.”
I’m just—stunned. I can’t believe this is all coming to a head right now. A planner by nature, I’m not a huge fan of scrambling to find a solution at the last second, especially when the consequences are so fucking dire.
“I’m gonna have to leave New York,” I say. Out loud. For the first time.
“We can figure something out,” Chris says because he’s a good friend.
The person I’ve known the longest in the city.
The guy I met in line at a fucking Starbucks.
We were always there at the same time, and we struck up conversations that we eventually took to the park to continue while we finished our coffees.
Not only did he hook me up with my job, but Chris also invited me to live in this two-bedroom with himself and three other men. He said it would be tight, and it has been, but it was far better than what I’d been doing which involved the YMCA and a lot of “Let’s go back to your place.”
To say I slept my way through my first few years in Manhattan would be putting it kindly. I had it down to a science. At the time, I’d been doing odd jobs between go-sees. Food deliveries, waiting tables. I was even, briefly, an usher on Broadway.
Which is another reason I can’t believe this is what it’s come down to. A choice between living in some shitty apartment across the river to continue working as a doorman, or getting the hell out of this city that seems intent on chewing me up and spitting me out.
I very much feel like I’ve been spit out.
My thoughts drift uptown, to Olivier, who didn’t come home last night. If it hadn’t been for the crisis here, I’d be in his bed right now, with or without him, but I would have known he’d show up eventually.
“You don’t have to go anywhere, Drew. But I have been meaning to ask you what happened with you and Jericho the other night.”
I tip my head back until it hits the couch. “I started to see the writing on the wall when Eric moved out. I think I’ve been slowly backing off.”
“You guys are good together,” he says. “She’s the best of the best, you know?”
“Maybe too good,” I mumble.
“Oh, I get it. You’re feeling sorry for yourself.”
I turn to glare at him. “That’s so fucking insensitive, dude.”
Christian frowns. “I—you’re right. You doing okay?”
“Just between you and me, I’ve been seeing someone else.”
His lips part, and I know I’ve not only stunned him but sworn him in under bro code without his consent. “Since when?”
“A few weeks.”
“Is it serious?”
“I don’t know if I’d call it serious, but it’s different, and Jericho deserves a lot better.”
“Does she know?”
“Not yet?”
“Drew.”
I sigh. “What difference does it make? I’m not gonna be around much longer anyway.”
“Where are you gonna go?”
California? Texas? “Home,” I say. “To start. Then we’ll see.”
“You’re giving up.”
I’ve given up, I want to tell him. There’s a difference. “We should get some sleep.” I stand and stretch.
Before I go into the bedroom, Chris says, “I’m sorry.”
The words land like lead weight on my shoulders. “Yeah. Me, too.”
Closing the door behind me, I pull my phone out of my pocket. There’s a text from Olivier.
Olivier
You’re not here. I noticed.
Wish I was.
Olivier
Come back.
Maybe I’ll stop by before work.
Olivier
I’ll come to you, then.
No.
Olivier